Camille Desmoulins and Elysee Loustalot
by 5aira
Summary: The French Revolution - 1788/90: Two radical journalists embark on a doomed love affair; Danton, Robespierre and Gabrielle make appearances; story in four parts


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**Camille/Elysee – An historical fragment in which Elysee helps Camille and is surprised.**

Paris November 1788 Rue Saintonge

Camille and Elysee are renting rooms in a lodging house run by a woman who has a side-line as a miniaturist.

Camille is alone in his room. The table is bestrewn with papers. Some of these relate to a case he has agreed to help Maitre Perrin with but they are not the focus of his attention. He is putting the finishing touches to 'La France Libre' but he is not happy. The pamphlet is finished, it says all the right things, but Camille is a perfectionist and he knows it is not yet perfect. Already the margins are covered with scribbled amendments and several of the final lines have been excised and rewritten. There is a half empty bottle of wine on the table but the thought, unbidden and unwelcome, that it might, just might, not be all he needs has crept into Camille's mind. Tired and disheartened he rubs his eyes and lays his head on his arms. He wishes he were not alone. Minutes pass…

Suddenly his mind is made up. He snatches up the red ribbon which had previously bound Maitre Perrin's papers and ties back the wilderness of his curls. With characteristically swift and graceful movements he sweeps together his pamphlet, picks up the wine, and rushes out of his room.

Down the dark, shabby staircase – don't stop to think or you won't do it. Knock on the door of number 5 before there's time to change your mind. Perhaps he won't be ….

But the door opens and there is Elysee, surprised but smiling and asking him in.

'Sorry Elysee' Camille has worked out his request on his headlong rush downstairs and he isn't going to stop for breath, 'I'm stuck on this last paragraph, would you have a look at it with me? I'd really value your opinion'

Elysee has now been struck with the second surprise of the last sixty seconds but he is man enough to overcome it – Camille asking for help is a fairly irresistible sight.

'Well of course Camille, though I can't imagine I will be much help, come and sit down'

Their rooms are similar, but a stove is warming Elysee's, throwing flickering shadows on the ceiling, there is also, mirabile dictu, a half-finished plate of madeleines sitting softly and stickily on the table. The two of them sit together, their heads touching in the candlelight, tousled jet against a fall of golden silk. Minutes pass.

Elysee looks up and turns to Camille

'Well, our styles are very different you know but it seems to me that if you replaced these three exclamation marks with a semi colon it would be perfect'

'Of course!' gasps Camille 'The artfully placed semi colon! Honestly I sometimes think punctuation is more gratifying than sex!' [He has, you notice, still found a use for his three redundant exclamation marks]

Elysee looks at the sharp clever face, the violet lids, the feathery lashes,

'Mmm' he says 'normally I would be inclined to agree, but somehow, tonight.. .'

His neat, practical hand reaches out and in a single movement unfastens the ribbon, knotting his fingers into Camille's hair; at the exact same time Camille's elegant, but it must be admitted slightly inky, index finger reaches out to trace the curve of Elysee's cheekbone leaving the faintest blue blush.

Someone has eaten all the madeleines – a crimson smear of jam stains the white plate. Minute pass…

**Camille/Elysee – Unnatural Acts Among the Affidavits**

Camille's admirers [and they are legion] will tell you about his tumbling curls, his sloe black eyes and the seductively tempestuous outbursts which are so quickly followed by the urgent, gratifying need for comfort. If you were to speak to Elysee you would hear a different story. Elysee is growing attached to the red ribbon with which Camille ties back the wilderness, he loves the razor sharp cheekbones, the hawk like nose and the feral intellect which irradiates Camille's writing.

Camille is visiting again tonight and after the unexpected success with the madeleines, Elysee is making his way home through the pouring rain with a small selection of pastries from the finest patisserie he can afford. The proprietor looked down his nose at the paucity of the sale. Elysee couldn't care less; he is buoyed up by the thought of what he is planning for tonight and by the sight of his own newspaper carefully folded in the proprietor's apron pocket.

Back indoors he busies himself with a reassuringly domestic routine [try to picture Camille doing this]. Wood on the stove; pastries on a plate; coffee on the go and against the iron bed head, a cosy nest of every single cushion Elysee possesses.

Like Camille, Elysee has spent time in the places where men go to abuse those who are not yet men. He has even heard some of those same men refer disdainfully to 'unnatural acts' when they are out amongst their friends. So Elysee was not shocked at the swift and knowing way Camille dealt with him last time but he hopes there can be something better between the two of them; something maybe not learned in pain and degradation elsewhere.

Things fall apart, however, when Camille arrives. He is in a fury; he hurls his copy of Elysee's journal onto the table and turns on him

'For fuck's sake Elysee! When will you stop letting that prick Prudhomme take all the credit for your editorials?'

No point offering cake now; or even essaying a reply; Camille is in full flood; shouting now, no trace of the stammer.

'I mean we're JOURNALISTS – you are LEADING Parisian opinion – you sell THOUSANDS of copies – you should SIGN YOUR FUCKING STUFF!'

A miasma of confusion envelops Elysee; he is not confrontational and can't see a way out of this; all his plans, he feels, are dissolving in the fury.

Camille pauses in his tirade. Maybe he is hoping for a row but instead he catches a glimmer of Elysee's distress; Elysee is very young and stoical. Camille's heart melts and a rare shaft of self-knowledge pierces his protective shield. His eyes fill with tears and he moves towards Elysee.

'Oh don't look so stricken Elysee! Forgive me – I've a sharp tongue and I don't always control it properly- I am so sorry'

In all other circumstances the stoical Elysee would find these violent mood swings disturbing but there is a distraction. Unaccountably Camille's long delicate fingers have unfastened the ties of his shirt and are now working on the rest of his clothes. Elysee responds and in seconds they are both naked. There are tender red welts on Elysee's thighs made by Camille's nails as he slides to his knees.

Elysee's plans are back on track; now if he can just hold on to his self-control for a few more minutes. Take a deep breath Elysee,

'Wait Camille – not here- not on the floor –lean against the cushions on the bed – I'll show you'

An unexpected change of scenario like this would normally put Camille into flight mode; he has been hurt and humiliated in such circumstances; but it never occurs to him that Elysee would hurt him and he feels pure pleasure as he leans back. Elysee puts his hands on Camille's knees; he moves them apart; navy blue eyes lock onto the obsidian pools;

'Like this Camille, face to face like everyone else'

To Elysee's joy and amazement Camille gives him the sweetest smile as he wraps his legs around him; he knots his fingers fiercely into the golden fall of Elysee's hair and draws him inexorably towards him.

For both young men, the act, when it takes place, is the most natural thing ever.

**Elysee / Camille L'eloignement**

Camille continues tripping down the stairs to visit Elysee at least once or twice a week. The red hair ribbon has found a home on Elysee's bookcase; Camille rarely attempts to restrain his hair now. Elysee is a little disappointed, he loves to see the razor sharp cheekbones and hawk like nose, the loose wilderness of curls tends to blur all but the eyes. After the unexpected success with the madeleines there is always a small but delicate selection of pastries left unobtrusively on the table; they are expensive and Elysee has to walk a long way to the patisserie, but Camille has a sweet tooth, and there are rarely any pastries left in the morning when Camille takes his leave.

Elysee is not unaware of the fact that their landlady, and occasionally her daughter can be found leaving Camille's room early in the morning. He is puzzled and one evening he asks Camille about it. Camille looks a little sheepish; he casts his eyes downwards; those wretched lashes again.

'Oh well' the stammer is very bad now, 'you know – they come in – maybe to change the curtains [they never change Elysee's curtains] – or to bring in the laundry [they never do his laundry either] and somehow one thing leads to another and it seems churlish not to oblige them – and then- you know -their hands – and fingers – all fluttery and quick and knowing – it can be very arousing Elysee'

Camille raises his eyes,

'I'm sure they'd do the same for you'

Elysee is far from certain that they would, and he knows with absolute certainty that should this unlikely event come to pass he would not respond with Camille's élan. He has known this since before he came to Paris. The slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach is probably a sign that Elysee should draw back from this relationship now.

Political life in Paris is hotting up; great days for journalists! Elysee bases almost all of his work on eyewitness reports, he works alone and wears out acres of shoe leather tracking down his stories. Camille is not so very different, but he has also become well known for reporting from the power house of revolution, the Jacobin club, where his old friend Max is a coming man. Later Camille joins the Cordeliers and his black eyes begin to glow.

Elysee notices the glow and the sick feeling grows a little stronger; one night when Camille gets up to eat the last baba au rhum he declines his share and bites the bullet instead,

'You do know you've worked Georges-Jacques-Jacques' name into the conversation ten times tonight?'

Camille puts the pastry to one side,

'Have I really?' the stammer is negligible; 'Well you know I really think he might be the revolutionary leader we have been waiting for. He's very impressive, a brilliant speaker – never uses notes although he does sometimes ask me to scribble a few things down for him. He's incredibly powerful too, I think Fabre has worked on his voice– you can hear Georges-Jacques-Jacques from across the river when he's in full flow'

The sick feeling is rivalling Georges-Jacques-Jacques' voice for power now.

'In fact I'm taking a room in their house – it's so much more comfortable than here'

Elysee allows the nausea to take full possession of him; the glow in Camille's eyes had already told him everything; the confirmation just delivered is only the death knell of his hopes.

When Camille leaves in the morning he kisses Elysee lightly on the cheek;

'Come to supper at Danton's' tonight, fabulous food and wine and I know you'll like Gabrielle'

Elysee's navy blue eyes are completely untouched by the smile he gives in response; he retrieves and holds out the red ribbon.

'Oh no I never tie my hair back now didn't you notice? Georges-Jacques-Jacques says it irritates him'

Elysee ties the ribbon round his copy of Diderot as the door closes. He sits down on the bed; the half eaten pastry a silent reproach.

As Camille makes his way to the Cordeliers it crosses his mind that Elysee's cheek felt rather hot and slightly damp; he hopes Elysee is not working too hard; maybe he should mention it at dinner tonight.

Dinner is a great success. Camille has invited Max as well because he really thinks all his friends should get on together. The two politicians are full of genuine praise for Elysee's journal and Camille feels something like pride on his behalf, as if he himself were in some way responsible for Elysee's talent. Elysee, however, is very quiet and although Gabrielle tries to be unobtrusive Camille is vaguely aware that she is making rather a lot of fuss of him.

They walk home together; it is Camille's last night at the lodging house. Their landlady and her daughter are both waiting for him. They have thoughtfully packed all his things and are greatly adoring and fluttery. Elysee slips unnoticed to his room, feeling hot and sick and lonely.

**Camille/Elysee 'Oh Loustalot' **

Something reptilian is crawling around deep in the pit of Camille's stomach as he makes his way to the old lodging house. Louise Robert would be gratified. That had been her intention when she told him of Elysee's illness.

Camille is familiar with this creature inside; sometimes, nowadays, it lies dormant but it was the nightmare companion of his schooldays. Today it has grown sharp teeth and is nibbling at him, clearly intent on a parasitic maturity.

It has been some time since he saw Elysee, probably no more than twice since he moved in with Georges-Jacques and Gabrielle. Elysee did come to dinner once but Camille had been preoccupied, drafting the skeleton of a speech with Georges-Jacques. He noticed Gabrielle making an inordinate fuss of Elysee but Georges-Jacques had been teasing Camille about a reference to Catullus and he was absorbed in justifying himself.

As Camille reaches Elysee's door he remembers Gabrielle saying that Elysee didn't look well. Camille's creature must have fledged now; because it is beginning to swoop and dive as if searching out prey.

Louise finds Danton at the Jacobin Club with Robespierre; both men decide to go straight to the lodging house to take charge of the situation. By this they mean take charge of Camille. As manly men [albeit of different sorts] they agree [on this at least] that it is impossible to imagine Camille being of any practical use whatsoever in any emergency.

They may well be right in their opinion but by the time they arrive there is no emergency. Elysee is dead. In point of fact he had died peacefully – exhaustion? overwork? pneumonia? heartbreak –failure? just a few minutes before Camille's arrival.

He doesn't look very peaceful now though. Camille has been making strenuous attempts to wake him up and Elysee has failed completely to rise to the occasion. Camille's eyes are not his own – the gnawing creature may be close to full possession. Camille sits next to Elysee and looks frantically from Max to Georges-Jacques as if trying to decide which of them is most likely to have the powers of resurrection. Max, his stalwart comfort of so many nights at school, is the chosen one.

'He must be awfully tired Max – would you wake him up for me? I don't want to upset him.' The debilitating stammer only emphasises the desperation of the request.

Poor Max! This, he thinks, is what happens when you allow something very precious to you to fall into the hands of other people; he recalls a flutter of soft grey wings; a storm; a broken cage…. He feels very frightened for Camille and is maybe a little brusque because of it;

'Camille, he's dead, you have to come with us now'

Camille shakes his head;

'No' the word, fluent in its anguish, is repeated in an insistent whisper. Camille certainly doesn't look as if he's going anywhere.

'Camille there are things to be done – please you must leave him now' Max's reedy voice is thin and high with his own anxiety. He moves towards the bed.

The move is a mistake; Camille begins to tremble; his lament rises in pitch. Georges-Jacques notices one fine boned hand establishing a fierce grip on the iron bedstead; the other, with practised familiarity knots itself in to Elysee's hair. Camille is taking up a defensive position.

Georges-Jacques puts a restraining hand on Max's arm; two hysterics and a dead body might tax even his resourcefulness; he must keep Max calm at all costs. He glances around the room trying not to allow the icy misery of Camille's threnody into his head.

He sees a red ribbon; Camille has told him a little about it; maybe just enough. Georges-Jacques picks it up; if this doesn't work, he thinks, we'll have to knock him out. Georges-Jacques knows he won't be able to do this to Camille – maybe that can be Max's job. Georges-Jacques takes the ribbon and fastens it around Camille's thin wrist; Camille's pulse is racing dangerously; but he looks down at the ribbon and Georges-Jacques-Jacques can feel his pulse slowing fractionally.

'Camille, you need to be writing for him – you can't leave this to Prudhomme.'

Impossible to say how the effect is achieved; Max will never understand it, and Georges-Jacques would be hard put to explain his intuitive actions but some expression returns to Camille's face and the noise calms. His pulse continues to slow as Georges-Jacques strokes the beribboned wrist with a movement he has seen Gabrielle use on the baby. Eventually, compliant, Camille traces the curve of Elysee's cheek one last time and leaves with his two friends.

Camille spends the next day writing. Two speeches; one for the funeral and one for the Jacobins; and they have to be the best he's ever written. Gabrielle never leaves his side. She isn't comforting him, or feeding him, or making coffee. Gabrielle is copying Camille's words as fast as he writes them because it is obvious to her that his tear stained sheets are going to be illegible and equally obvious that he has not the faintest idea of this. It is difficult to say who she is writing for but as she works she is haunted by the careworn face of the young man who came to her dinner party.

Later, at a sombre session of the Jacobins, a shaking and tearful Camille stands up and begins to speak. The Jacobins listen in silence. Max is aware that Danton has risen to stand beside Camille in unselfconscious solidarity, one powerful hand resting gently on Camille's thin shoulder.

Max shudders; this, he thinks again, is what happens when you allow something very precious to you to fall into the care of other people. He can hear the rustle of soft grey wings.


End file.
